NOW
The panic that gripped her as she hurtled toward Kate’s house made one thing clear: she no longer trusted her friend. Marcus had been under Kate’s supervision numerous times, but everything had changed now that she knew her friend’s identity. Frances’s tires screeched on the damp pavement as she turned onto 26th Street and raced toward the Randolphs’ impressive house. Slamming the car into park on the shoulder, she barreled out of the vehicle, sprinting to Kate’s front door. Frances aggressively rang the doorbell several times before trying the door. It was locked. Of course it was.
Moments later, the door swung open. “Hey . . . ,” Kate said, her smile fading as she sensed Frances’s agitation.
“I’m here for Marcus.” She pushed her way inside. “Marcus! Let’s go!”
“Frances, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t appreciate you taking my son home without my permission.”
“I texted you. . . . I noticed you were running late, and I didn’t want him left alone at the school.”
“I was a couple minutes late,” Frances snapped. “I shouldn’t have to hear from Jeanette Dumas that my son has gone home with someone else.”
Kate remained calm. “You gave the office permission for me to take him. I thought you’d be fine with it. In fact,” she said, an edge to her voice, “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“Well, I don’t.” Frances moved to the bottom of the staircase. “Marcus!” she yelled, her voice verging on hysterical.
The boy’s muffled response came from behind a closed door. “What?”
“Are you angry?” Kate asked. “Have I done something?”
“Let’s go, Marcus!”
“Talk to me, Frances. Whatever it is, we can work it out.”
Frances whirled on her. “Talking is not going to erase what you did.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, then their weight settled on Kate. “What do you mean?”
“You know.”
Kate’s voice was soft, but her features were hard. “Who told you?”
Frances wasn’t prepared for this confrontation. Her goal had been to get Marcus and get out, without revealing her hand, without discussing what she knew. She wasn’t ready—emotionally or mentally.
“I—I figured it out,” she stammered.
“How?” Kate’s tone was acerbic.
Should she tell Kate about the photograph she’d found in David’s apartment? The apartment where Daisy had spent the night drinking and doing God knew what else? But she wouldn’t betray the girl’s trust, not now.
“Marcus!” Frances called, but it was quieter this time, less urgent. The boy would ignore her, she knew it.
“Let me guess,” Kate said, her voice dispassionate, “You stumbled upon an article about the girl who got away with murder.”
“Did you?” Frances asked, her voice a croak. “Get away with murder?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve served my time. I’m a free woman. People don’t have the right to follow me and harass me and invade my privacy.”
Frances said, “It matters to me.”
Kate hesitated for a moment, her expression unreadable. Was she considering dodging the question? Concocting a fabrication to appease her friend? Or was she going to tell the truth, even if it crushed Frances’s heart? When she spoke, Kate was firm, adamant.
“No. I didn’t.” She turned then, and marched into the kitchen.
Frances could have yelled again for her son, could have gone upstairs to collect him, dragged him to the car, and driven home. She could have closed the door on all this ugliness, on her friendship with Kate. But something inside her, something desperate and needy, couldn’t let it go. Cautiously, she walked into the kitchen. Kate was staring out the picture window, her arms folded.
“What about the tapes?” Frances asked, tentatively. “They show you doing horrible things. . . . They show you enjoying it.”
Kate kept her eyes on her bright green lawn, her precisely trimmed hedges, her tidy flower beds. “I was tortured and abused. I was under the control of that monster. I was a screwed-up kid who got sucked into a nightmare, and I paid for it.” She turned then, faced her friend. “I still pay for it.”
Her repressed but evident anger confounded Frances. “What about Courtney Carey?” she gasped. “Isn’t she the one who really paid?”
Suddenly, Robert, in his pressed jeans, his blindingly white button-down shirt, was in the kitchen with them. His expression indicated that he had overheard. Or maybe he could just sense his wife’s chagrin.
“She knows,” Kate stated, flatly.
The lawyer addressed Frances, his tone impersonal. “Who have you told?”
“No one,” Frances said, feeling the weight of their eyes on her. “Not even Jason. I’ve been trying to come to terms with it myself.”
The spouses exchanged an unreadable look, and then something clicked. Kate became Kate again: kind, caring, charming. . . . She moved toward Frances, touched her arm tentatively. “This must have been awful for you. I know it’s a lot to take in.”
“It is.”
“You need time and space to process this. I respect that. But I just hope that, eventually, you’ll see that I was a victim, too.” Kate’s eyes filled with emotion; emotion, but not tears. “Our friendship means the world to me. I . . . I don’t want to lose you.”
Frances couldn’t respond. If she spoke, she would cry.
Robert said, “Please don’t tell anyone, Frances. The children would be devastated.”
She nodded her compliance.
“And Kate has a legal right to privacy. Any invasion of that could constitute harassment.”
Was it a threat? Was Robert going to sue her if she confided in someone? Have her arrested for sharing their dark secret? He had moved to his wife now, placed a protective arm around her shoulders. Frances suddenly felt like she had broken into their house.
“I’ll get Marcus,” she said, hurrying out of the room.
* * *
Driving home, Frances fought back tears. Her son, being an appropriately self-absorbed adolescent, hadn’t picked up on the tension between Frances and Kate, hadn’t noticed his mother’s quiet, shaky demeanor. She didn’t want to upset him by falling apart. That would be reserved until she was behind a locked bathroom door.
“Can Charles sleep over this weekend?” The boy’s voice jarred her from her reverie. Marcus was beside her, in the passenger seat. On his own, without her prompting, he had graduated from the backseat.
“I don’t think so, Marcus.”
“Why not?”
Because his mother killed a teenage girl.
“It’s a busy weekend. You have martial arts and soccer.”
“Not at nighttime, though. Why can’t Charles come over at nighttime? We’ll just be sleeping. And in the morning, I’ll go to martial arts and he can go home.”
“It’s not a good time.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” she muttered, pulling into their driveway.
“Why can’t I have a sleepover?” Marcus whined. “Kate would say yes. She always lets us. Why are you so mean?”
Frances slammed the car into park and turned to face her son. “Mean? You think I’m mean? You don’t know what mean is. You don’t have a fucking clue.”
The boy’s eyes widened with shock and Frances felt sick. She shouldn’t have taken her anger out on Marcus. Her son could be difficult and frustrating, but he was innocent and good. And when all this came out, he would be hurt by it, too.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m just having a bad day.”
Marcus nodded slightly and unbuckled his seat belt. He climbed out of the car and headed to the front door. Frances stayed behind the wheel for a moment, eyelids closed. Her friendship with Kate was over—it had to be. The camaraderie she and her son had enjoyed must come to an end. Once Jason knew, when the community found out, there would be no going back.
Joining Marcus on the front steps, she unlocked the door. “Do you want to watch a movie?” She forced a cheerful tone. “Or play a video game?”
“Sure.”
Frances’s outburst was forgiven.